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Wednesday, 15 April 2015

COONAMBLE YARNS

COONAMBLE YARNS

I have not had the time to do any more
Canberra-based yarns, although some are being written by others as I wait. In the meantime I thought I would publish the following yarns that were
written by my dad, the late Roy Wheeler(1924-2008). Roy lived in Coonamble for
about 4 years between early 1948 and early 1953, working as a high school
teacher. I was born in Coonamble during that period.

Dave Wheeler.

AFTER SCHOOLby Roy Wheeler

According to the
thermometer hanging under the peppercorn tree it had been 105 degrees
Fahrenheit when school went in after lunch. The afternoon’s lessons had dragged
and the children were hot and listless. Everyone was relieved when the bell
rang at half past three. This was a typical summer afternoon at Coonamble in
1951. I stood by the roadside in the shade of a cedar tree and saw the children
from Quambone safely onto their bus. I felt
sorry for them. Ahead lay 40 miles of heat, dust and corrugations, and beyond
that little hot houses baking in the western sun. The temperature would not
drop below 90 at night so there was no relief.

I stayed in the
shade for a while, enjoying the slight breeze and thinking about equality of
educational opportunity. I was in no hurry to go back into the hot school to prepare
for tomorrow. The bus rattled over the bridge at the end of the main
street and soon the only sounds were the “carr carr” of a distant crow and the
slap of Cec Green’s paintbrush on the school’s picket fence.

“G’day Cec,” I said.

“G’day”, said Cec.

Cec put down his
paintbrush, pushed his sweaty hat onto the back of his head, and while he
strolled over to join me in the shade, took out his tobacco pouch. We would
share the next 10 minutes.

We squatted on our heels
with our backs against the tree. Cec put the edge of a paper on his lower lip,
put some tobacco into the palm of his left hand and passed me the makings. Mine
were in the staffroom.

Cec looked up and down
the main street, spat, paused for a while and then spoke.

"Bloody hot.”

No reply was expected.

“Thought I might go out
on the stock route for some firewood this evening’” said Cec. “Evening” meant
late afternoon.

Cec was a painter by
trade and he successfully applied for all the government contracts. He painted
the school, the post office, the police station, the courthouse and all their
outbuildings and fences. Then it was time to start again. Cec never hurried.

“Too hot to go out today,
Cec,” I said. “Might cool off a bit in a few days.”

By the time we had
settled this problem we had finished our smokes. We stood up and were about to
go back to work, Cec to his fence and me to prepare my lessons, when we heard a
familiar roar from behind Titch Turner’s place opposite.

The familiar roar came
from Titch’s T Model Ford truck. It came round the house in low gear, mudguards
trembling, engine roaring and it moved slowly onto the road. Titch grinned,
waved and turned the steering wheel. The left front wheel came off and the
truck slid to a stop. The ancient Ford seemed to be kneeling in prayer; perhaps
it was asking to be left in peace after years of hard labour.

Cec and I stayed where we
were. Work could wait.

“G’day Titch,” we said.

‘G’day ,” said Titch,
still gripping the steering wheel.

He got out and walked
round to the front of the truck and scratched his greasy head. The end of the
axle had ploughed into the gravel and the wheel, now attached only by a bent
steering rod, lay nearby. Titch needed to think things over so he joined us under
the cedar tree. This time I borrowed some of Titch’s tobacco and we rolled our
smokes in silence, making sure that the three of us didn’t light from the same
match.

“Broken kingpin,” said
Titch, breaking the silence.

“Is that bad?”

“Aw no, must have some
bolts about that size.”

Titch went off to find
some bolts while Cec and I rested in the shade of the cedar tree awaiting
developments. Titch reappeared carrying two bolts as candidates for the
position of kingpin. The larger one wouldn’t go through the holes, even when
encouraged by a four pound hammer, so Titch settled for the one that was too
small.

“That should do it, ”said
Titch as he set the throttle, retarded the spark and turned on the ignition.
The coils buzzed their four different notes as he turned the crank handle. The
engine fired.

Titch drove down the
road, struggling to control the wheel wobble, and rattled over the bridge. All
was quiet once more. Cec went back to painting the fence and, rather slowly, I
walked back into the hot school.

A Model T Ford truck similar to the one driven by Titch Turner.

PERCY SIMPSON

by Roy Wheeler

Surrounded by a noisy,
beery mob I shuffled into the boxing tent at the local Show. The ring was set
up and sawdust covered the ground. It was not my scene but I was rather worried
about Percy Simpson, our school captain. He had been up on the platform
outside, next to the spruiker, and had been presented to the crowd as “the
local boy” who was to go three rounds with one of the boxing troupe.

I knew Percy was only
fifteen and he had been matched against a wiry lad who looked about twenty. I
was hoping Percy would get a fair go, although there was not much I could have
done about it if he hadn’t. Percy was big for his age and was well built. I
needn’t have worried. He gave a good account of himself.

I was teaching in a small central high school in Coonamble in 1952. The pupils were friendly country kids and
Percy was in the final Intermediate Certificate year. He was the school captain, a natural sportsman and one of nature’s gentlemen. He would punish my
slow off break when I joined in playground cricket, using a tennis ball and a
garbage tin wicket. He was also Aboriginal.

About a week after the
show I was sitting on the tank-stand doing lunchtime playground duty. Percy
came up for a yarn, as pupils often did. I asked him if he wanted to become a
professional boxer. He paused. “No,” he said. “I’d rather have a proper job.”

The year passed happily
but we were worried about Percy’s future. At that time Aborigines could only
get menial, poorly paid jobs in town. There was prejudice. The owner of a local
store had asked me to suggest a “good strong lad” to help in the shop on busy
Saturday mornings. I suggested Percy. I well remember the reply. “Hold on.
Isn’t he that Aboriginal boy? No, he wouldn’t do. You see I’d want him to take
money to the bank.”

We talked to the officers
of the Aborigines Protection Board when they made their regular visits to the
town. Yes, they would do something for Percy – arrange for him to go away for
further training leading to a worthwhile job. They’d give him a chance.

At the end of the year I
received a transfer to Lismore, hundreds of miles away. Our furniture was being
loaded when a police constable arrived with a telegram from the Aborigines
Protection Board. It asked him to contact me to see if the two of us could find
Percy a job in town. I left in disgust.

Over forty years passed
and I retired. I heard that Percy was living in an Aboriginal community near
Ballina and that he was far from well. I called on him. The years dropped away
and he told me his story.

After leaving school he
drifted to the city, going from job to job. He earned money in the gyms by
sparring against big name professional boxers. He fought in some preliminary
bouts and finally joined a boxing troupe, following the show circuit around
Australia. Unfortunately too many punches had got past his guard and he
suffered from bad headaches.

I felt a heavy load of
sadness for what might have been. This sadness was tempered when I realised
that he was loved and looked after by children and grandchildren. But I still
see a country schoolyard and a young man smiling brightly while he is lofting
me for six ---- a long, long time ago.

The late Percy Simpson aged around 15 in 1952.

SATURDAY NIGHT PLAYOUTby Roy Wheeler

I could throttle that
kid. He’s doing it again. He’s pretending he has a sticking valve and has
stopped playing. I’ll have to struggle on alone.

We are playing our
opening number, “Colonel Bogey,” and we are down to our last strain. The
regular euphonium player has been called out on an urgent job and that leaves
young Jimmie and me to play the euphonium part. I am still a novice, whereas
young Jimmie, the bandmaster’s son, is a remarkably good player even though he
is only 10 years old. The high notes are no trouble for him.

The last strain has an
important and, for a beginner, a rather demanding counter melody. I struggle on
alone, miss a high note, lose my place and stop playing. Jimmie is still
fiddling about with his valves. Out of the corner of my eye I see the
bandmaster looking across at us, wondering why the counter melody isn’t coming
through.

The last strain is
repeated. As expected, young Jimmie’s valve has suddenly become unstuck and now
he is showing me just how good he is and how the part should be played. I could
throttle him.

It is a usual Saturday
night in or around 1950. About 20 of us, resplendent in uniform, are in a
circle under the shop awnings in the main street of Coonamble, a small north
western NSW town. The usual crowd is in the street listening to the town band
before going to the pictures.

We’ve finished “Colonel
Bogey” and we open our spit valves and blow silently through our instruments to
get rid of the condensation. There is nothing as bad as the bubbling of “soup”
through in the tubes.

While the librarian is
collecting our music I look around the group. My teaching mate, Joe Bruce is over
with the solo cornets. He’s pretty good. During the war he was a navigator in
bombers in England and he has carried on aircrew practice by severely altering
the shape of his band cap. Instead of being flat on top it now drapes down on
both sides. They call him “Sloppy Joe.”

The late Joe Bruce to the left and the late Roy Wheeler to the right at Coonamble High circa 1950.

And there’s big Lennie.
He plays the double B flat base. It’s a big instrument, it needs a big man and
Len does a good job. He has never married and at the age of thirty five he is
getting on a bit. The story is that before he had gone off to the war Len had
been very keen on a certain girl. In his courteous, old fashioned way he had
approached the girl’s father for permission to pay court. Her father had high
hopes for his daughter, and as Len was a house painter he was shown the gate. Poor
girl; she missed out on a good man.

There is compensation for
Len. It is amazing the number of respectable matrons who, on their way up the
street, stop and have a long chat with him. They must enjoy his chiacking and
the mild flirtation.

Little Titch Turner plays
the trombone, or rather moves the slide up and down with great vigour. He’s a
shocking player and not infrequently plays the dreaded extra note after
everyone else has finished. When that happens it’s impossible for the offender
to look nonchalant and unembarrassed.

Titch gets dirty with
grease and sweat during the day because he earns a precarious living doing
backyard car repairs. His wife doesn’t seem to mind because almost every year
yet another miniature Titch is enrolled in kindergarten. However, Titch scrubs
up for Saturday night and looks quite smart in his uniform.

Now Titch has an
application in to the council for the sanitary contract; to collect the
nightsoil, as it is delicately known. This gives Lennie‘s earthy sense of
humour good scope, “Gawd Titch, a man your size couldn’t lift a full can, you’d
have to pour half of it out. And what if you tripped over and fell in? Jeez,
you’d drown.”

My musings are
interrupted by the librarian who is handing out the next number. It is the
“Cuckoo Waltz.” Beauty! The euphoniums have the melody for sixteen bars with
the cornets playing in close harmony. It is so sweet it brings tears to the
eyes. I might be a poor reader with limited range but long slow passages in mid
range I can handle. Furthermore I can get the full, sweet, mellow tone that the
euphonium is named for: I can make it sing. As yet Jimmie can’t.

We lift our instruments
and watch for the bandmaster’s beat. My turn young Jimmie.

Above is the Coonamble Band in the main street in 1950. The band is also shown below and at the bottom of this yarn are the names of the members as shown on the lower photograph.

Footnote by Dave Wheeler Since this yarn was first published I have discovered that the "young Jimmie" Roy was referring to was Jimmie Sloggett. He is the kid with the euphonium 3rd from the right in the second row from the top in the closest photo above. Roy is on the far right of that row. Jimmie became a well-known and highly skilled professional saxophonist who was New Zealand-based for much of his career. Jimmie has played with Johnny O'Keefe, Max Merritt, Johnny Rebb and the Rebels and many others. He also had his own bands, "Jimmie Sloggett & Combo" being one of them. He has also been employed as a musical arranger. As I lived in New Zealand for several years, on and off, starting in early 1972, and saw many NZ bands, including Max Merritt and the Meteors, I probably saw Jimmie play. Below is a link to Jimmie's profile, followed by a youtube link to him and his band. Jimmie plays a mean sax.http://www.audioculture.co.nz/people/jimmie-sloggetthttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8r3P2J3GzARoy, on the other hand, never had a musical career, although he continued to enjoy playing the piano and organ, and occasionally the euphonium, until his death in 2008. He was never in the same league as Jimmie Sloggett. Roy however, was an accomplished poet. He wrote the words to Slim Dusty's song, "Clara Waters," which can be heard on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0b5jq1Zdv0&nohtml5=False, and other songs such as "By the banks of the Berembed Weir," on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoEnxkREkLQ&nohtml5=False He also wrote the "Breaker Morant Waltz" and "Goanna Oil." Goanna Oil was recorded by Raymond Crooke and can be heard on youtube by clicking on the appropriate button at the top of this page and the "Breaker Morant Waltz," with Roy Wheeler on the organ and Spud Murphy on the voice, can be heard by clicking on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZauzB6LnOVU Jimmie Sloggett teaches the sax online on http://www.musicteacher.com.au/jimmie-sloggett/saxophone/ Jimmy Sloggett was interviewed on the Radio National Program, "Rare Collections," on the 24/5/15. The program was entitled "Jimmy Sloggett on the Sax." It was a very interesting interview which briefly covered his life and career. It also plays some of his music. It is well-worth downloading on:

It was half past two in
the morning and I was standing in the dappled moonlight on the back path, under
the grape trellis, flapping my pyjamas. To understand how this came about I
must tell you something of the sanitary arrangements of small, far western
country towns about 1950. This was in Coonamble and we had dunny cans. The
dunny man would come around once a week with an empty can and take the full
one. I suppose it was better than having a pit toilet.

If a bloke is in a hurry
and forgets to take his wallet or his tobacco pouch out of hip pocket he can
lose them forever down a pit toilet, but with a can, retrieval is possible. On
the other hand, every country town has its story of dunny men, called nightsoil
collectors, who have walked into newly erected clothes lines at night and have
spilt the lot. Anyhow to get back to the story…….

It was that time of year
when the “gastric” was sweeping the town. It happened every year, like the
seasons rolling around, and was accepted as the natural way of things. Some
people reckoned it was because of the flies and that not everyone put the lid
down.

Well, I had the gastric
and had to answer the call about 2 am. It was a nice, warm moonlit night.
I turned the torch off and left the door open so I could contemplate the
backyard; the old copper under the tree, boiled up every Monday, the sagging clothesline
with its prop, the woodheap.

The woodheap was always
close to the dunny so if there was anyone about, within earshot, when you went
down the back you could abort the mission and pick up some wood for the stove
instead. Anyhow, to get back to the story…..

There I was, sitting
comfortably, enjoying the view of the backyard, thinking about the brevity of
life and the length of Eternity. In the far distance a rooster, deluded by the
moonlight, crowed to announce the dawn.

I was about to make
arrangements to leave when I heard the neighbour’s back door open. There was a
soft shuffle of slippers down their path. It would be Molly. Their dunny door
creaked and I heard their lid go up.

In those days it was
custom to build dunnies back-to-back, so to speak, so the neighbour’s dunny was
just over the fence from our dunny; only a few feet separating them.

Now there is a sort of
unwritten law, I suppose you could call it bush etiquette, which says you can’t
embarrass them by letting them know, that you know, that they are in the dunny.
If I left now Molly would know that I had been in the dunny and she would know
that I knew that she was in the dunny. It’s just not done.

So there I was, stuck,
and unable to make a sound. I would have to remain, seated, for the whole
performance.

Now Molly was a bit
“la-de-da;” she bunged it on at times. She often mentioned, in passing, that
she had been to Ladies College. When she entertained graziers, which she often
did because it helped her husband’s business, her accent got very fruity. She
sounded like one of those rich, chinless wonders from southern England. She
didn’t speak with a broad Australian accent, so much in keeping with our wide,
brown land. Not Molly.

Well, to get back to the
story….She must have had the gastric pretty bad because she kept saying things
like “Ohhh GAAAWD” and JEEEZ.” It wasn’t Ladies College. She probably came from
Queensland.

I was becoming fed up
with being stuck there. Then came a sound which captured my musical
interest……..you know I belonged to the town band. It was quite drawn out, which
is not unusual for the gastric, but the note didn’t get sharper or flatter……it
remained at the same pitch all the way through.

I reckoned it was middle
C. While I was reflecting on this link between music and physiology, she
sounded again. This one held its pitch too and I judged it to be about E on the
scale.

“Aha” I thought, “She’s
building up a major chord. I’ll bet she goes for the G next time.” I sat there
expectant but was disappointed because there was a rustle of paper and then she
left. The slippers shuffled away up the path, and their backdoor
closed. I was now free to go.

Now there is another
thing you should know about dunnies. If you’ve stayed any length of time,
people can tell where you’ve been for some time afterwards. The smell clings to the
clothes. The song may have ended, but the melody lingers on, so to speak.

So, before I went back to
bed, I stood in the dappled moonlight on the back path, under the grape trellis
and flapped my pyjamas.

The photo above is of our family home at 12 Arthur Street, Coonamble, circa 1950. My older brother, John, had a mate who lived nearby in Arthur Street named David Lyons. I can recall John bringing up stories about David Lyons and himself even though the pair would have only been around 4 or 5 when we left Coonamble. One day our chimney caught fire when my mum was home by herself. Fortunately David Lyons' dad came running over and put the fire out, preventing the whole house from burning down. My brother John was killed in Vietnam in 1971.

FOR MORE MAINLY CANBERRA-BASED YARNS CLICK ON THE "HOME" BUTTON ABOVE.

About This Site

This site carries on from a previous site in which I sold a book entitled “Tales of a Canberra Boy,” which is out of print. I will however, allow readers to download it free of charge as I'm a great bloke and because the site is costing me nothing to run, and due to the kindness of a mate setting it up for me. To download it click on the appropriate button above & and when the cover appears click on the title of the book which is written in small writing below it. You can also download free of charge "A Rationalist's Guide to Life" using the same procedure. It is a rewrite of an earlier book I wrote which is also out of print. If you are prepared to commit to Rationalism you will get a lot out of it, otherwise it will bore you shitless. If you have an interest in the history of Canberra visit the site owned by a mate, Dave Reid, at http://www.davesact.com/ It gives an excellent overview of Canberra's history and provides interesting historical yarns. In regard to my background it is detailed in "Tales of a Canberra Boy."